Dare Devils and Depressing Pasts
by This.Is.Fanfic'Oo
Summary: Matt ran away from home when he was fifteen. Mello is adrena-junkie when he's angry. The one thing that these two have in common? They both have depressing pasts and bitchy girlfriends. Read it and love it! R&R! Rated M fer...you know why... YAOI!


**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or any of it's characters OR Resident Evil. But, God, do I wish I did. :I**

The walls were dry and cracked; covered in a greasy yellow substance that was completely unidentifiable.

The air was gray and smoky and reeked of cigarette smoke and hardcore alcohol. The dirt-brown and ketchup-red leather arm-chairs were ripped to near shreds as far as the exterior went, but nobody ever complained. Nobody ever complained about _anything_. Huh. Probably because nobody would ever do anything about it if anybody _did_ complain about something. They never did. But that was The Tavern. Nobody gave a shit about anything at all except about how fast their drinks were served and when the pool tournament was on.

That was probably the reason why he hung out there all of the time; because nobody gave a shit about anything and neither did he. He was at home in The Tavern. He always was. Since he was fifteen-years-old, the red-head came to The Tavern not to socialize - at all - but to calm down his nerves, play some pool, and drink some drinks. The Tavern kindly - to put it simply - accepted runaways, as long as they paid for their shit and didn't pester anybody that didn't need any pestering. Simple as that.

And speaking of pestering, a lively game of pool was being played over in the west corner of the scarcely decorated bar. Neon beer and coffee advertisements flickered on and off all behind the counter where alcoholic and nonalcoholic drinks were being served by the bottle, if not more on occasion.

A large bearded fellow with a dead eye and an all leather outfit was loudly screaming - practically foaming at the mouth with the rabies he possessed - at a small, slightly pudgy man with curly, thinning brown hair, thick-rimmed glasses and a greasy business suit with folded sleeves. A large, skinny cue stick was being jabbed his way by the large, angry man - probably because he had been conned, most likely by the short man. Despite all that was going on, the pudgy man didn't seem the least bit scared. In fact, he seemed strangely at ease. But the big man who was obviously drunk beyond any legal limit was yelling many loud profanities at the small man and was even beginning to include some regular drinkers that practically lived at The Tavern.

And wouldn't you know it, not too late into the screaming contest he was having with himself, the drunkard raised his arm to strike the quiet middle-aged man. But as soon as he raised his meaty arm, the fool was quickly retaliated by an equally large man - the owner of the bar by the looks of it. The owner took hold of the drunk man's arm and, in one quick motion, twisted it behind his back with a sickening, but not fatal, crunch before brutally throwing him out onto the icy-cold sidewalk.

"You know, maybe if you didn't drink so goddamned much, you might be able to win a game against the li'l con man, eh?" The burly man shouted at the inebriated man with a heavy Irish accent, who was flat on his face, just about passed out on the sticky piss-laden sidewalk. The big bearded man spat on the concrete beside the drunk man's head before turning away and stalking toward the entrance to The Tavern, slamming the double-doors behind him with a huge echoing slam.

"Nice one Henry. You really showed that bastard, eh?" A small blonde woman with a tattoo of her daughter's handprint on her right arm and her son's on the left commented with a slight British accent.

"Just doing me job, Lara," he replied with a satisfied air. He started to walk toward the demanding beer counter, but stopped short when he noticed one of his long-time customers sulking in the far east corner of the bar with his red head on top of his stripe-clad arms, a drink in hand, sitting next to the burly man's big busty wife. He slowly walked over to the young man, trying to see what was wrong with the boy that's been like a son to him for the past seven years.

"Aye, Matt, what're ya here fer this time? Celeste break up with ye again? Heheh. That's gotta be the third time in two months." His best attempt to break the ice between the two was set in vain.

The red-head looked up from his simple beer and with shielded goggled eyes, shook his head slowly from side to side. He was slouching and clutching his beige foamy drink for dear life, a sad solemn look on his face.

"Well what happened, Hon? Talk to us, eh?" This was from Henry's wife. She seemed as equally concerned - if not more - as her husband.

"I-I got kicked out of my apartment. Celeste d-dumped me for good. God, I think she h-hates me." The young man's voice was trembling with pain, agony and depression. He seemed about ready to break down into a full-out sob-fest in his very seat. His hands were shaking wildly and he wasn't even through his third beer yet.

The couple just looked at the poor young boy with incredibly sympathetic looks of concern. They wanted to comfort him as best as they could with as many soothing words as possible, for they knew not to touch him whilst he was in _this_ kind of mood.

See, everyone that knew Matt at the _bar_ knew that when he was in a bad mood - and not just particularly angry as much as just _remotely _sad- you couldn't touch him. Ever. He would freak and nobody knew exactly why. Some of the residents of the bar say that Matt was heavily abused as a child and suffered some kind of terrible mind-altering experience and that's why he ran away to The Tavern in the first place. But others…well, they have…different theories.

"I don't know what to do, you guys. I really don't. I have nowhere to stay, no friends to go to, and nobody to talk to about this kind of stuff - no offence to you both. You're my family. You always have been and will be." The red-head's voice was small and sad; kind of shaky. He seemed to try to put on a more cheery tone than his depression-laced one, but ultimately failed.

"None taken, Hon. We'll love you no matter _what_ some slut-faced hoes and tight-assed landlords say." Carry just smiled her normal reassuring smile and lightly rested her hand on her husband's shoulder with much love.

"Yeah, Matt. Ye can always come here in yer times o' need, you know." The man added on to his wife's sweet reassurance. The two looked into each other's eyes with much adoration and love for each other that slowly accumulated over the many long, loving years. They both smiled at Matt with their loving smiles one last time before they walked away together without another word, calmly hand-in-hand, to break up a scuffle among some more troublesome drunkards.

"So much for happiness on my part," the twenty-two-year-old muttered to himself before taking a hearty gulp from his beer.

Wind; that was all he felt. It was surrounding him. It was everywhere. Its soft touch, its velveteen feel, its smoky, yet clear scent…it was perfect. It was on his near-exposed back, around his leather-clad arms, clinging to his tight jean-clad legs; it was unexplainably pleasant. It felt absolutely beautiful; as if there were no other feeling in the world like it. Hell; there probably wasn't. He wanted to embrace his pure feelings inside and out, fully - like a spiritual embrace almost - after a long and painful week of horribly mixed feelings, painful physical hurt and wretched emotional torture.

The blonde barked a cheery loud laugh at the pleasant feelings of the wind surrounding him, almost losing his balance on his "borrowed" jet black Ducati motorcycle. The heavy metal cycle went from side to side, left to right, barely evading a variety of many different cars. He laughed out so loud that, even over the roaring of multiple frantic motors and the screeching of many hot burning rubber tires, anybody could still hear his demented bark of pure cheeriness.

One last car came into view and the leather-clad blonde swerved around a near mint-condition '69 cherry-red Camaro and almost skinned the left side of the car, barely missing the side-view mirror, earning the finger from the not-so-polite buzzed driver from behind the wheel. But he didn't return any morally obscene gestures because he knew what it felt like to have an increasingly shitty day and he was waaay too euphoric to cause anyone pain at the moment no matter how sadistic he was feeling.

"Oh my. I might just have to settle down a little bit before I kill _too_ many people" He was talking to himself again. And in a very odd manner at that. He hadn't done this in nearly seven months. But he didn't care about that at all. In fact, the blonde didn't care about _anything_ too much at the present moment. And he _won't_ care about anything in the least for a long, long, _long_ while. At _least_ until he gets back with his bitch of a controlling girlfriend.

See, our crazy dare-devil Blondie had just broken up with his crazy - but hot - girlfriend, Angelica, after a huge fight about something as trivial as what to see at the movies for their two-year anniversary. Personally I would've chosen 'Resident Evil: Afterlife', but that's just me. But anyways, doesn't Angelica sound like the perfect catch? Heh. This type of thing wasn't unusual or uncalled for these days for the on-and-off couple. They were always fighting; ever since the godforsaken four-month mark. But they never truly broke up because of the purely-physical relationship that they shared. If only she wasn't amazing in bed…. And they won't. Ever. At least, that's what Angelica thinks.

**Well, that was my first long chapter, like…ever. YAAAAAAY! I feel good about myself. Now R&R or prepare to die. Heh. Not Really! But seriously. Do. :I**


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